Anecdotes from the Hospital Wing
by Pepper44
Summary: Poppy Pomfrey was used to her life as Hogwarts matron, but lots of things have changed since the Marauders have arrived.
1. Chapter 1

'AARRGH!'

'Would you_ hold still?_'

Gripping the girl firmly by the wrist, I peer down at the vicious gash encircling her forearm. It is red and angry, caked with dried blood which has extended halfway down towards her hand. 'Quite a nasty cut,' I comment.

She glares at me through puffy eyes, volunteering no information on how the injury was acquired. Nor does she offer me any insight as to why she waited so long before coming to visit me; this wound plainly happened at least twenty-four hours ago. I do not ask.

My name is Poppy Pomfrey.

As sole matron for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, it is my job to tend to each and every illness and injury that may crop up in the students. And let me tell you: there is no group of people which demonstrates greater creativity in their methods of bashing themselves up than the girls and boys of Hogwarts School. In my time, I have seen everything from missing chins to extra nostrils to common broken bones. One boy even showed up completely drenched in blood, although the only apparent injury was a tiny paper cut on his left thumb.

How did it happen? Quite frankly, I do not care.

It's my job to heal wounds. It is _not_ my job to mediate between various parties of warring students. It is _not_ my job to investigate injuries obtained under mysterious, and possibly illicit, circumstances. I don't care whether this Slytherin hexed that Gryffindor (it happens rather frequently) or whether some boy's bite looks like he got it off a Thestral. So he was probably wandering around the Forbidden Forest—it's not my problem!

That is why I don't ask questions.

I cure illnesses. I heal wounds. I am kind and gentle to those people who are clearly in a lot of pain. I try to do my job. Sadly, my job is not always especially easy to do. Other people tend to be incredibly interfering where it is concerned. They simply refuse to stand back and let me get on with my work. Like right now.

'OWW- _it hurts!_' the girl shrieks, her face contorting as I rub Belby's Disinfecting Potion into her gash with a cloth. The potion in question tends to smoke and sting rather unpleasantly.

'Well, you'll just have to be more careful next time, won't you?' I say briskly. I am not beyond giving small pieces of advice.

'Stop it!' she cries out as I press harder. These wounds need to be thoroughly cleansed in order to avoid infection, and I tell her as much.

'If I don't get this done,' I snarl, scrubbing away relentlessly _('Yee-owww!'_) 'Then is two days' time—,' her face is now scarlet, '—your entire arm-,' she closes her eyes, '—will have swollen to the size of a Bludger!' I throw away the cloth and scowl reprovingly at her, my arms crossed. Silly child.

She opens her eyes and says in a small voice, 'Can I go now?'

'No,' I growl. 'You need bandaging. Now let me see it again, just to make sure-,'

Looking alarmed, the girl pulls her arm out of my reach. 'It's fine!' she insists. 'I don't really-,'

'Do not tell me what you do or don't need.'

'But I haven't got any time,' the girl now looks tearful. 'I have-,'

'I don't care if you have your wedding in five minutes!' I exclaim furiously. Why in Merlin's name can't these children allow me to tend to their problems without causing such a fuss? 'This is _my_ hospital wing and you will remain here until I discharge you!'

'I have Charms,' says the girl sulkily.

'Professor Flitwick will forgive you.'

'But, Madam Pomfrey-,'

'Let me look at your arm,'

'But-,'

'NOW!'

Looking slightly frightened, she finally concedes, extending her arm for my inspection. The wound now looks clean and germ-free, which is a relief. I give it an experimental poke with my wand.

'AARRGH!' the girl bellows, yanking back her arm. 'Don't touch it!'

Fifteen minutes later- once the hysterical girl is sufficiently disinfected, healed, and bandaged, and I have sent her on her way—I collapse into a chair and savour the quiet.

'Children!' I sigh, shaking my head. They really are characters. Sometimes I wish that, just for one day, I could experience it again: running amok, getting up to all sorts of trouble…getting myself injured in all sorts of fantastic ways. It seems that since I have become an adult, my life is significantly less interesting.

Sighing again, I survey the mess that my patient left behind: a chair knocked over, the sheets yanked halfway off the bed she was perched upon, bits of unraveled bandage lying all over the floor. That's not to mention the heavy stench of Belby's Disinfecting Potion lingering on the air.

'Children,' I mutter again.

'Yes, they really are something,' says a voice.

I look around, and there's Minerva McGonagall standing behind me, an amused glint in her eye as she too studies the state of the hospital wing. 'Indeed,' I reply.

'What was it this time, Poppy?' she inquires, eyes now sharp from beneath raised brows.

'Hard to say,' I answer. 'The ways these youngsters manage to hurt themselves…' I get to my feet and begin to bustle around, tidying up. 'Lessons finished for the day, Minerva?' I ask as I straighten the curtains with a flick of my wand.

'They've hardly been lessons,' says Minerva, passing me the bottle of disinfectant, which I replace on my Potions shelf. 'I've been invigilating exams.'

'Ah, yes,' I murmur. 'Term is nearly finished.'

'Another year done,' she adds, and we smile at each other. Minerva McGonagall is one of my oldest friends. We attended Hogwarts together: she was in Gryffindor and I was in Ravenclaw, although we were always close. Sometimes when I look at her I still see the brainy, Quidditch-obsessed girl from our schooldays.

'Speaking of the year being done,' I say, rearranging pillows, 'Has Dumbledore managed to find a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?' Our old one, Quentin Wimbly, retired very suddenly a few weeks ago. It was not unexpected seeing as in all my time as the Hogwarts matron, we have not managed to hold on to one Defense teacher for any longer than three terms.

'Speaking of Dumbledore,' says Minerva. 'He wants to speak to us in his office in five minutes.'

I look up, 'Oh, really?'

'Really.'

'Finally going to give us the sack, then?'

Minerva smirks, 'We'd better go and find out, hadn't we?'

'A werewolf?' repeats Minerva faintly.

Albus Dumbledore smiles his usual benign smile. 'Yes, Minerva. That would be correct.'

'But…?'

The three of us, Minerva, Dumbledore and I, are sitting in the Head's office. Most of the portraits are wide awake, listening in on what has turned out to be a highly unexpected conversation. The headmaster has just finished informing us that he has made arrangements for a werewolf to attend Hogwarts in the beginning of next term.

'Albus,' says Minerva. Her expression is one of horror and shock. 'This is-,'

'This is an outrage!' supplies Phineas Nigellus Black angrily from his portrait. He stands up and gesticulates forcefully with a gnarled hand, 'Dumbledore, this is absurd. A werewolf, sullying the hallowed halls of Hogwarts! Muggle-borns are bad enough, but a werewolf!'

'That's enough, Phineas,' says Dumbledore sharply. His benign smile is now gone. He stands up behind his desk, looking fairly impressive in his flowing scarlet robes with his light blue eyes blazing. 'The wizarding world has always been blinded by prejudice and a hunger for power!' he exclaims. 'We look down upon those who are less fortunate, perhaps, or who are incapable of magic. We treat them in a terribly brutal fashion simply because we cannot relate to their predicaments. Muggles! House-elves! Goblins! Centaurs! Merpeople! Werewolves! _That_ is the true outrage!' he thunders, now looking rather frightening with his beard askew and his half-moon spectacles sliding down his crooked nose. In a cage in the corner, Dumbledore's pet phoenix gives a loud squawk. He sits back down heavily and glares at us, straightening his glasses.

Minerva doesn't say anything, so I decide to speak up.

'Headmaster,' I say carefully, 'it is not a question of whether or not the three of us here are bigoted. How do you suppose the rest of the community will react to knowing that a werewolf has been enrolled in Hogwarts? To knowing that a werewolf may very well be sleeping in the same dormitory as their children?'

'They will not react,' replies Dumbledore calmly, 'because they will not know. I do not intend to include a notice with this year's booklists.' He stands up again and begins pacing up and down the study, hands clenched behind his back. 'The werewolf in question is a boy named Remus Lupin. He was bitten by Greyback at the age of four. I have met him: he looks and acts like any other eleven-year-old boy, albeit more quiet and shy as a direct result of his condition. He is a fine boy, rather intelligent as a matter of fact. It would be a crime to prevent his education at Hogwarts simply because of an incident which occurs one night a month.'

He stops pacing and looks down at us questioningly.

'An incident,' says Minerva through her teeth. 'About this incident: how in Merlins's name-?'

'Ah yes,' says Dumbledore, smiling inexplicably. 'The crucial point. Have either of you ever heard of what is known as a Whomping Willow?'

'Excuse me?' I say.

Dumbledore returns to his seat and closes his eyes, apparently thinking. Minerva and I exchange an uneasy glance. I notice the previous headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts doing the same.

'The Whomping Willow,' he says finally with his eyes still shut, 'is a rare type of tree native of, I believe, Argentina. It is known for sporting a rather impressive collection of branches which will attack anyone or anything which touches or strays within distance of its trunk. I might add that there is also a certain knot on its base—merely prodding it causes the branches to still and allows a safe approach.' He opens his eyes and smiles widely, 'The plan is exceedingly simple: a Whomping Willow is being shipped to Hogwarts as we speak. Once it arrives, it will be planted in the grounds. No one will know that in actual fact it will be guarding the entrance to a secret tunnel which will lead to Hogsmeade.'

'So the werewolf will be able to be smuggled into Hogsmeade for the full moon,' summarises Minerva dully.

'Not quite into Hogsmeade,' corrects Dumbledore, still smiling at his own ingenuity. 'The tunnel will lead straight into a house on the outskirts of the village. This house will be given every kind of magical protection and reinforcement available. The only way in will be through the tunnel.'

'Merlin,' whispers Minerva, shaking her head. 'Dumbledore, this is ridiculously risky! All of the things which could go wrong! What if the werewolf managed to escape the house and attacked the village? What if a curious student found their way into the tunnel?'

'Neither will happen,' Dumbledore says firmly. 'I have thought this through, and I am sure of it. Do you really think I would take any risks?' He arches an eyebrow at Minerva, and she shakes her head miserably. Dumbledore turns to me, 'What say you, Poppy?'

'Oh!' I say, slightly alarmed at being asked my opinion. 'Well, I suppose that if all the necessary precautions are taken, then-,'

'You mistake my meaning,' Dumbledore interrupts in a patient voice. 'As matron, it will be your job to tend to all the medical needs of Mr. Lupin. They may be numerous. I ask whether you are up for the challenge.'

'Quite a challenge it will be,' adds Dilys Derwent from her portrait, having been a Healer herself. She catches my eye and winks.

'I will do my job,' I inform Dumbledore. No matter how absurd that job may be, I think privately.

'You always do,' agrees Dumbledore. 'Now, forgive me, but I don't think you have any experience in werewolves?'

'No,' I admit. I have studied them in my training as a Healer, of course. I know how to recognise lycanthropic wounds, and treat them to a very small degree, but it is true that I have no great knowledge or real first-hand experience. How should I? Between my short stint in the Spell-Damage ward of St. Mungo's and all my time as Hogwarts matron, where am I supposed to have encountered a werewolf?

Dumbledore is now rummaging through a desk drawer. 'Here it is,' he mutters, pulling out what appears to be a large, glossy pamphlet. He passes it to me across the desk, and I accept it curiously. Across the front in spindly silver letters standing out on the black background: _A Healer's Guide to Werewolves._ I flip through the pamphlet and see detailed instructions on how to treat bites, scratches, and various other lycanthropic maladies.

'I do hope that you will be giving Poppy a pay raise for her trouble,' says Minerva bluntly.

I am momentarily flustered.

'Oh, no,' I say quickly. 'That won't be necessary. I would—I would be honoured to do this. It will be a highly educational experience.' I hand the pamphlet to Minerva, and ask Dumbledore, 'Which other members of staff will you be informing?' I am thinking of Horace Slughorn, known for his lack of tact and narrow-mindedness.

'As few as possible,' Dumbledore answers. 'I want Mr. Lupin to be treated in the same fashion as his fellow pupils, and the optimum way for that to be achieved would be for his teachers to remain ignorant of his condition.' He pauses. 'His head of house will be informed, and I think that will be all. I've told you, Poppy, for obvious reasons, and you Minerva, as you are Associate Headmistress.'

'I still say that this is preposterous,' mutters Minerva, flipping through the pamphlet. 'A werewolf at Hogwarts! Really, Albus. Of all your outlandish schemes…' She looks for a moment as though she is about to say something prejudicial on the subject of werewolves, then perhaps recalls Dumbledore's earlier diatribe and catches herself. Instead, she thrusts the pamphlet back into my hand and fixes Dumbledore with an exasperated expression.

'Now then,' says Dumbledore with the air of one concluding a conversation. 'I trust that you will both be discreet, and by that I mean that no one should learn about my decision unless I myself tell them.' He eyes us like misbehaved schoolchildren.

'Of course,' I say, and Minerva echoes my promise a little halfheartedly.

'That goes for you, too,' Dumbledore adds to the portraits, who give their affirmative response in unison. 'Phineas?' he prompts, eyeing the Slytherin sternly over the rims of his spectacles.

'Yes, yes,' Phineas Nigellus sighs theatrically.

Dumbledore continues glaring at him for a moment, and then turns back to me.

'Poppy, that booklet should contain everything you need to know. If you require any additional information, please don't hesitate to pay me a visit.'

'I will, headmaster,' I reply.

'Then good day to you both.'

As soon as we have descended the staircase and are standing in the corridor beyond Dumbledore's office, Minerva begins to exclaim angrily, although she is so furious that she is nearly incoherent. 'The nerve of him!' she hisses, flinging up her hands. 'What is he thinking? A werewolf! He is—I can't—this is utterly—why—oh!' she gives a great cry of frustration. She turns to me with a look of desperation on her face, 'What on earth are we to do, Poppy?'

'Accept it, I suppose,' I reply. 'The same as we have always done where Albus Dumbledore is concerned.'

We begin walking slowly down the corridor, saying nothing. When we reach a large tapestry depicting a rather violent tea party shared by a group of trolls, Minerva says abruptly, 'Have you ever met a werewolf, Poppy?'

'Never,' I reply.

'I have,' Minerva says quietly, 'once.'

I wait for her to elaborate, but she appears to be lost in thought.

'Dumbledore claimed that this Lupin seemed like any normal boy,' I prompt her.

'Well,' she murmurs in the same quiet voice. 'I can only hope it's true. The werewolf I met…' she swallows, 'well, let's just say that it did a lot to confirm any bigoted views I might have had.'

We arrive at the top of a staircase which leads down to the hospital wing. 'I'll see you, Minerva,' I say to my friend, who will continue down the corridor towards the Transfiguration department. She says nothing, only offers me a worried look which does nothing to improve my confidence.

'Horace, what do you think about werewolves?'

'Werewolves?' repeats Horace Slughorn, pausing over a spoonful of pudding.

It is dinnertime in the Great Hall. For once the hospital wing is devoid of patients, so I have come to eat with the rest of the staff. I pose my question to Horace once I am sure that Dumbledore is absorbed in his conversation with Pomona Sprout and Minerva is safely sitting at the opposite end of the table. I want to hear the lowest opinion up-front.

'I was just wondering,' I say, assuming a casual expression as Horace eyes me interestedly. 'You know, as a Healer I can't help but ponder from time to time…'

'Of course you can't,' chuckles Horace amiably, diving into his pudding once again. 'Curious creatures werewolves are- that's for sure.' He licks his spoon, walrus mustache quivering. Then he turns back to me. 'You want my stand on them, Poppy? Here it is: they're monsters, plain and simple. Nothing to debate.'

I try playing devil's advocate: 'They can't be all bad, Horace.'

'Why, of course they are,' Horace retorts cheerfully. 'They're vicious, werewolves. Any humanity they ever have dissolves once they acquire the bite.'

'Overnight, you mean?' I am starting to become alarmed: I am going to have to be caring for one of these things soon.

'Over time maybe,' Horace shrugs, plucking a biscuit off a tray. 'It definitely goes though. That's common knowledge.'

I remind myself that Horace Slughorn is notorious for being narrow-minded. No stand can be worse than his. As I fret quietly, Horace finishes chewing his biscuit before turning to be with still more unsettling news.

'My brother was a werewolf hunter, you know.'

'Sorry?'

'Werewolf hunter,' he reiterates, looking proud. 'Walter was his name. He was mightily good: most months he would track down and kill at least five or six. Sometimes even ten.'

'Why?' I am appalled.

'Because they're evil, Poppy! Haven't we already established this?'

'But surely it's illegal?'

'Not as such,'

'Frowned upon?' I inquire with an air of desperation.

'Many people encourage it,' Horace informs me. 'Not openly, mind you. It's too controversial. But I'd bet ten boxes of crystallised pineapple that a good majority of the wizarding community is all for hunting down the werewolves and getting rid of them for good.' He bites into another biscuit.

I am feeling rather sick. If so many people are interested in the extermination of werewolves, how can it be purely prejudice? There must be some fact involved. And one of these…monsters…is coming to Hogwarts for Merlin's sake!

'Are you discussing werewolves?' pipes up Filius Flitwick from Horace's other side, perched atop a stack of books. 'I believe that werewolves are seriously misunderstood people. They are treated quite unjustly.' I turn to him hopefully.

'Nonsense!' cries Horace, dropping his half-eaten biscuit and rounding on Filius belligerently. 'We understand them fine: they're maniacs. They should be locked away!'

'How could you be so bigoted?' squeaks Filius just as belligerently. 'You are not a werewolf; you can't know what they're really like. I think that we should make an effort to get to know them before judging them!'

'Get to know them?' demands Horace incredulously, brandishing his fork in a rather violent manner.

'Excuse me,' I interrupt before they can become carried away. 'But have either of you ever met a werewolf? Known one personally?'

There is a silence as both Horace and Filius gape at me rather gormlessly.

Then Horace says, 'Just go to the library. There are plenty of books in there written by people who've met werewolves and still agree with me.'

'Don't believe a word of it, Poppy,' Filius mutters sotto voce, under the cover of Horace refocusing his attention on dessert.

At eleven o'clock that night, I return from the library with my arms full of books. Elbowing my way into my office, I deposit the books onto my desk and close the door, locking it with a tap of my wand.

'Late night, Poppy?' says the portrait of Deborah Higgs, a former Hogwarts matron.

'So it seems,' I reply as I sit down behind my desk.

I pull the first book towards me: _The Werewolf Controversy_ by Wallace Martin. I open the leather-bound cover and turn to chapter one, _The Case for Werewolves._ I begin running my eyes over the densely printed text, particular phrases jumping out at me.

_Werewolves have been persecuted for centuries_. Well, I know that.

_No one knows what really goes on in the werewolf's head. The only ones who know for sure are werewolves themselves, but we are of course unsure of whether or not their claims can be trusted. _I thought this was supposed to be the case _for_ werewolves. I turn the page.

_The common opinion is that werewolves have no control over their actions during the full moon. In this case, they cannot really be held accountable for their actions. _The common opinion? Does this mean that some people believe that werewolves _do_ have control during the full moon? I am slightly alarmed by how little I seem to know. Then one paragraph catches my eye:

_Studies show that when an individual is treated differently from others, he evolves to in fact become different. In this case, it is the fault of us normal humans that werewolves tend to behave in such a vicious manner. They are merely acting the way that they have been taught that they are supposed to act. _

I sigh and turn to chapter two, _The Case Against Werewolves_. I notice that this bit seems to be much longer.

_Werewolves have been known to act in an incredibly vicious manner, particularly toward humans._ I am put off by this remark. Aren't werewolves humans too?

_The most notable killers in history are werewolves. They attack both in their human and wolf forms._ There must be a legitimate reason for this—perhaps werewolves aren't vicious by nature.

_Werewolves have been known to go to great lengths to conceal their lycanthropic conditions. Experts say that this suggests a guilty conscience._ It also suggests that werewolves know how bigoted people are, and are trying to avoid being ostracised.

I slam the book shut and bury my face in my hands. 'Of course, the author of this book is probably prejudiced,' I mutter to myself. I open the book again and flip to the short biography of Wallace Martin:

_Wallace Martin studied lycanthropy at the Merlin Institute of Magical Creatures. He is a leading member of the Dark Force Defense League, and lives in London with his family. Mr. Martin has petitioned on numerous occasions for the extermination of werewolves. _

Aha, I think. Talk about being prejudiced. But perhaps he's right, I muse. Perhaps werewolves really are murderous beasts, and should be exterminated. It seems to be what most people believe I pick up the next book: _Why Werewolves Are Monsters_. Disgustedly, I throw it back down onto my desk and grab another: _Werewolves Are Just Like You and Me_. I turn away from this book as well.

'I don't know what I'm supposed to believe!' I cry out loud, close to tears.

'Believe in the right thing, dear,' says Deborah Higgs from her portrait.

'But what's the right thing?' I demand. I turn to her. 'Deborah,' I say desperately. 'Dumbledore's enrolled a werewolf at Hogwarts.'

'That man,' chuckles Deborah, straightening her wimple.

'Have you ever met a werewolf? Tended to one?'

Deborah grows solemn, thinking. Then she says, 'In 1392. A third year Hufflepuff lad named Edgar Butler went wandering in the Forbidden Forest after nightfall. He was attacked by a werewolf. Bitten. We found him the next morning, covered in blood.'

'Dead?' I inquire.

'No, he lived.'

'What happened to him?'

'He was expelled, of course,' replies Deborah, looking surprised that I had to ask.

'Just for wandering in the Forbidden Forest?' I ask in astonishment.

'Oh, no,' Deborah shakes her head. 'For being a werewolf. We couldn't have one in our school.' She shrugs indifferently. 'If you think folks are prejudiced today…I don't what became of him.'

'Are they truly bad, Deborah?' I ask softly, not sure whether or not I want to hear her answer.

'I have no idea, dear,' smiles Deborah. 'I suppose that it's a matter of opinion just like everything else.'

I pull out the pamphlet from within my robes and stare at the glossy cover with a sense of foreboding. 'It seems that I'll be forming my own opinion soon enough.'


	2. Chapter 2

'Fancy a bet on this year's Sorting?'

'Really, Horace,' says Minerva, pursing her lips in disapproval. 'You'd think that by now you'd have given up such childish antics.'

It is the first of September, seven o'clock in the evening. The students should be arriving any time now, and Horace Slughorn has accosted Minerva and me on our way into the Great Hall. Taking bets on the Sorting is a bit of a tradition for Horace—trying to predict which students will be Sorted into which Houses. Obviously it's impossible to tell for Muggle-borns, but where pure-bloods and half-bloods are concerned there's always room for some reasoned guesswork. It's Horace's own way of making some extra gold.

'It's just a bit of fun, Minerva,' says Horace, hastening after the Associate Headmistress as she lengthens her strides, boots clacking loudly on the floor of the freshly polished Entrance Hall. I trail behind slowly.

'You have a twisted idea of fun,' snaps Minerva, not slowing down in the slightest. 'It's appalling.'

'You don't have to be such a spoilsport,' puffs the stout Horace, out of breath from moving so quickly.

It's also a tradition for Minerva to abhor Horace's game. Each year, she adamantly refuses to participate, believing it improper to bet on children. She finally stops in front of the marble staircase, turning around with a whirl of her long emerald robes and facing the eager Potions master with a frankly dangerous expression, her lips thinned to almost nothing.

'I have half a mind to take this up with Dumbledore,' she hisses, glaring down at Horace from her considerably greater height. As I approach I notice with some alarm that she seems to be gripping her wand inside her pocket.

Horace laughs boomingly.

'Last year I won ten Galleons off Dumbledore when he was so sure that the Bletchley boy would end up in Hufflepuff,' he informs Minerva smugly, then withdraws the register from within his robes. 'Let's see… "Aubrey, Bertram"—who's he?'

'His mother was that girl who set the Astronomy Tower on fire in her seventh year,' I recall. 'Those burn wounds were horrific. Good gracious, what was she called again?' I can't seem to put a name to those blackened features.

Horace reads the next name off the list: 'Avery, Roderick.'

'Slytherin,' notes Minerva grudgingly. 'Do you remember his father?' She suppresses a shudder at the recollection.

'His mother was in Ravenclaw,' I remark. 'She was quite a gifted witch. Young Avery might take on after her.'

'You wager Mr. Avery will become a Ravenclaw?' smirks Horace. 'Poppy, I will bet you five Galleons that he's Sorted into _my_ House.'

'Alright,' I agree, avoiding Minerva's eye as I seal the transaction. There's nothing wrong with a bit of gambling, as far as I'm concerned. The Transfiguration teacher harrumphs loudly as Horace happily records the bet on a scrap of parchment.

Horace returns to the register, 'Let's see, who's next…oh hello!'

Filius Flitwick and Pomona Sprout have arrived with Irma Pince trailing along behind them. They join the small group of us clustered around the marble staircase.

'Doing some betting?' inquires Pomona good-naturedly, peering at the register over Horace's shoulder. She has changed from her normally dirt and leaf-covered robes into a freshly laundered pair.

'Who's next on the list?' asks Filius from somewhere near my thigh.

Horace checks. 'Black, Sirius,' he announces. All of our faces fall in almost perfect synchronisation. This is not welcome news for any of us.

'Another Black?' says Irma Pince in dismay. Three generations of Blacks have mishandled books during Irma's time as Hogwarts librarian.

'No one's going to give you any odds on that one, Horace,' Minerva sniffs. 'There's never been a Black Sorted anywhere but Slytherin, as you well know.'

'Oh come on!' says Horace, staring around at us earnestly. 'Young Sirius might be the black sheep of the family! The start of a new generation of Blacks!'

'Or not,' mutters Irma, scuffing the ground with her toe.

'He's part of a generation that's already been established,' I note. 'Andromeda, Bellatrix and Narcissa. All three have been raised in the traditional Black fashion. All three have been Sorted into Slytherin like the rest of their family. Why should Sirius Black be any different?'

'The history of Slytherin is littered with Blacks,' Filius adds. 'Not one other House has ever been befouled by a member of that family.'

'Littered? Befouled?' says Horace, his face contorting with incredulity. 'The Blacks are immensely talented. I'd be glad to have a new one in my House. Not that there's isn't a small chance he'll defy our expectations. Go on: I'll bet any of you five Galleons that Mr. Black becomes a Slytherin.'

Silence.

The Blacks are an ancient and corrupt family, renowned for their twisted beliefs. They are convinced that to be Black is to be practically royal. In addition, they harbour undisguised contempt for Muggle-borns, priding themselves immensely for being pure-blood. They are famous for being arrogant and vindictive; all Black children are raised to carry on this legacy. They are taught from a young age to religiously follow the Black's warped viewpoint. It is natural that the lot of them have always found themselves in Slytherin. Nothing's going to change any time soon.

'One Galleon?' says Horace weakly.

Silence. Then—

'Alright,' Pomona Sprout concedes. 'One Galleon it is.'

'Marvelous,' Horace whips out his scrap of parchment. 'Which House, Pomona?'

'Any House,' Pomona shrugs. 'Any House but Slytherin, I suppose.'

'Specifically?'

'Gryffindor, then,' Pomona grins. 'I'd might as well go all the way.'

'One Galleon down the drain, Pomona,' mutters Irma as we make our way into the Great Hall.

'What were you thinking?' Minerva hisses to the Herbology teacher. 'You know perfectly well that this Black boy will go straight to Slytherin as soon as the Sorting Hat touches his royal head. Or were you just humouring Horace?'

'There's no harm in letting him have a bit of fun,' says Pomona. 'Besides, you never know…'

'In this case, you do,' grunts Minerva.

We reach the staff table and take our places, looking down at the illustrious Great Hall with its elaborately set tables and colourful banners adorning the walls, not to mention the starry indigo sky overhead. A rumble of voices and footstesps in the distance tells us that the students have arrived and are making their noisy way through the Entrance Hall.

As the first students spill into the Great Hall, a queasy feeling disturbs my gut. I reach into my robes and slide my hand around the pamphlet that I have been carrying on my person almost religiously for the past three months. There is one first-year boy who I am especially anxious to see, one Sorting I am especially anxious to witness.

In the end, I don't get to watch any Sorting. Not even a third of the students had taken their seats before Argus Filch dashed up to the top table to inform me that I was needed in the hospital wing; a student had fallen ill on the train. As I hurried out of the Great Hall, I prayed that it would be a flu or a fever or something easily curable like that. It wasn't. It was a hypochondriac.

'There's nothing wrong with your health,' I say flatly.

'I'm dying!' the boy wails.

We are standing face to face in the entrance of the hospital wing, although if it were up it him he would be on his way to St. Mungo's right now for emergency treatment.

The boy is a fourth year Hufflepuff named William Potts. He is tall and thin, with a good deal of curly ginger hair. I see a rather lot of him in the hospital wing. In fact, if a week goes by where he hasn't paid me a visit, I have reason to celebrate. There is not a single known ailment that William Potts has not allegedly come down with over the course of his time at Hogwarts. There have even been some cases where he becomes infected with mysterious, unknown illnesses. Like today.

'So just to clarify: you're telling me that your face has changed shape?'

'It's collapsing,' Potts whispers. 'My face, it's…it's falling apart. Look at my nose, it's gone all droopy—and my cheeks! Something's wrong with me, something's dreadfully wrong. Oh, god, I'm dying. I'm going to die! I'm going to die! HELP ME!'

As I drag the hysterical boy into the ward ('What are you doing? I need specialist attention!') I simultaneously try to speak comforting words to him and hear what is going on in the Great Hall. All I can make out is the distant roar of applause which means that someone has just been Sorted.

'What's going to happen to me?' croaks Potts as I push him into the nearest bed.

'Drink this, dear,' I hand him a goblet of Calming Draught mixed with Sleeping Potion. It should do the trick.

'What is it?' Propped up against the pillows, Potts eyes the murky brown liquid suspiciously. If I tell him what it contains he will refuse to take it.

'It's nothing, dear. Drink it up, now.' I'm trying not to appear as impatient as I am. Another round of applause sounds. If I can just get that concoction down his throat, I may manage to return to the Great Hall in time to watch most of the sorting. Remus Lupin—'L'. That's in the middle of the alphabet. I may just get there.

'Potts?' I say, because the boy is still squinting uncertainly at the contents of his goblet. 'Drink it.'

Be nice, Poppy, I tell myself. It's not his fault that he's a hypochondriac. And it's not his fault that you're desperate to get back to the Great Hall to see a werewolf being Sorted. He's oblivious to your concerns. Be nice.

'You're trying to poison me!' cries Potts, going pale. Have I mentioned that he is also paranoid?

Forget being nice.

'Potts,' I growl, bearing down on him. 'Under no circumstances am I trying to poison you. I am trying to help you. I am Hogwarts matron, and you will do as I say or I will fetch your Head of House and you will face far greater punishment than a mild bout of hypochondria. You will face detention, loss of House points, and possibly suspension. Now you will do as I say, and you will drink that potion. _Do I make myself clear?_'

Yet another round of applause.

'I'm too young to die,' sobs the repulsive boy who now has fat tears gushing down his freckled face. 'Please don't make me drink this poison.'

I can deal with crying first-year boys. I can deal with crying second-year boys. Sometimes I even find myself capable of dealing with crying third-year boys. One simply hugs the child in question, gives it chocolate, and sends it on its way.

I cannot handle crying fourth-year boys. They are completely and utterly beyond my realm of expertise. Not only is it embarrassing to watch a fourteen-year-old boy bawl, but they are too big to be hugged and too clever to be plied with sweets.

'I haven't even taken my O.W.L.s,' Potts weeps, his lanky frame bent over with his shoulders convulsing, hands still wrapped around the goblet.

I want to turn and run right out of the hospital wing and back into the Great Hall. Or possibly out of the castle and into Hogsmeade.

'Alright!' I say. 'Alright, Potts. Just…just put the goblet down. Here, give it to me. Thank you. Now…you're going to be absolutely fine. It's a minor case of…' Quick, Poppy, make something up, '…of spattergroit.' I pray that he doesn't know what spattergroit is. Even as I Vanish the contents of the goblet, another wave of cheering rings through the castle.

'Spattergroit?' sniffles Potts. 'Wh- what's spattergroit?'

'Temporary appearance-altering disease,' I say briskly, playing along with his apparent symptoms. 'It'll be gone in the morning.'

'Are…are you sure?'

'Of course I'm sure,' I snap. 'Now, get yourself tucked in. I will be returning to the Great Hall. Send word by a ghost if you need me.'

I am halfway to the door when I realise the implications of my words. I turn back.

'Potts,' I call.

'Yes?'

'You may experience other symptoms related to spattergroit. No matter how severe they may be, I assure you that they are perfectly normal. Do not summon me unless there is an absolute emergency.' From across the hospital wing I give him a beady eye reminiscent of Minerva, 'And by emergency, I mean _emergency_. Understood?'

'Yes,' he squeaks.

I fly out the door of the hospital wing and begin racing down the labyrinth of corridors, twisting and turning and dodging suits of armour and statues, ducking through tapestries. Another round of applause sounds, and I speed up. Who knew that the distance to the Great Hall was so long? I am now sprinting down the first floor Charms corridor (the things I will do to witness a werewolf being Sorted…) and I can actually discern the distinct sound of children chattering amongst themselves and benches scraping against the floor and possibly even Horace Slughorn's deep voice calling forward the next student to be Sorted…

I am about three paces from bursting into the Entrance Hall when I hear a loud rushing noise from somewhere overhead. I skid to an abrupt halt, and a split second later I am covered from head to foot in a thick, bubbling green slime.

'AARRGH!' I yell, partially from shock and partially out of disgust.

Dripping in this unidentifiable muck, I look up and see Peeves the poltergeist floating high above me carrying a bucket. The triumphant smirk on his wide face fades slightly when he sees who I am, having probably assumed that I was a student.

'PEEVES!' I shout, brandishing a fist. '_What is this?_'

'Unvanishable Gunk, miss,' he says proudly.

'What do you mean, _unvanishable?_' I shriek. The stuff smells like a mixture of rotting eggs and bubotuber pus. I give another cry of rage and Peeves backs away, looking slightly alarmed. Any other time I would have regarded frightening Peeves as a great accomplishment.

Of all the moments I could have ended up on the receiving end of one of Peeves' pranks, it just had to be tonight, right now. As I stand there dripping in Unvanishable Gunk, I run through all the best swear-words I know in my head. If I didn't have any shame, I would march into the Great Hall like this and not care in the slightest what people thought of me. But sadly, I do not have any interest in becoming the latest topic of Hogwarts gossip.

So I take a deep breath, smile at Peeves, and head off to take a bath, hoping with all my heart that Remus Lupin is not Sorted into Slytherin.

The first day of term turns out to be surprisingly sunny for September, as though summer is making one last attempt to show its face before autumn claims the stage. I pull on my robes, pin up my hair, and scrutinise my face in the mirror to make certain that all traces of green slime are gone.

'Feeling alright, Potts?' I say as I bustle into the ward.

He gives a loud snore and rolls over in bed. As it is only six o'clock in the morning, I let him carry on sleeping. Heading into my office, I begin to tidy things up, reshelving books and filing away rolls of parchment with a few flicks of my wand. A clean workspace is important for a healthy mind, as I like to say. I stow a handful of quills into my desk drawer and pick up a bottle of scarlet ink.

'Good morning, Poppy.'

I nearly jump out of my skin. Whirling around, I am bemused to find Albus Dumbledore standing in the doorway of my office, smiling down at me pleasantly.

'Good gracious,' I say, putting down the ink. 'You gave me quite a fright.'

He carries on smiling.

'You're up early,' I note.

'Business to attend to,' Dumbledore gives an absent wave of his hand. 'Anyhow, Poppy, you were missed at the feast last night.'

'Just doing my job.' I do wish that Dumbledore would get to the point. He is quite one for beating around the bush.

'About Remus Lupin.'

I look up, immediately paying full attention.

'The full moon is in three days,' Dumbledore informs me.

'Oh. Yes.'

It is? Three days? Dear Merlin, I cannot believe I signed on for this. Honestly, what if Lupin turns out to be the monster Horace Slughorn believes all werewolves to be?

'Anyhow,' Dumbledore continues, oblivious to my alarm, 'I thought it would be uncomfortable for both you and Mr. Lupin to meet for the first time on that evening, so I have arranged for him to pay you a visit at seven o'clock tonight.'

'Arranged…for him…?'

'Indeed,' Dumbledore nods. 'I will inform the students at breakfast that the hospital wing shall be closed after half-six tonight in order to assure you privacy. Will that be convenient?'

'Yes, I suppose…,'

'Excellent,' Dumbledore turns to leave, then pokes his head back into my office, 'I'd look forward to the meeting if I were you, Poppy,' he says, 'Mr. Lupin is a lovely boy.'

The sound of the hospital wing door slamming shut resounds in my head like the thud of an executioner's axe. I sit down heavily behind my desk and bury my face in my hands. A meeting. With a werewolf. Tonight, seven o'clock. And I even forgot to ask Dumbledore about Lupin's Sorting.

'Cheer up, dear,' says Deborah Higgs kindly from her portrait.

I manage to corner Minerva McGonagall in the staff toilets after lunch.

'What happened at the Sorting?' I say without preamble, closing the door behind me.

She glances up from where she is washing her hands at the sink.

'Oh, hello Poppy,' she says brightly. 'You missed the entire feast last night.'

'I'm aware of that,' I sigh. 'You wouldn't believe…it was simply… anyway, how was it?'

She turns off the tap and dries her hands with a Charm. 'Well, let's just say that Pomona Sprout didn't lose any gold on her bet.' Minerva gives me a significant look as she stows away her wand.

Bets are the last things on my mind at the moment. 'What do you mean?' I inquire, confused. All recollections of last night's gambling have left my mind in the wake of the frustration at having missed the Sorting.

'Sirius Black,' Minerva informs me, stepping closer, 'was Sorted into my House. Gryffindor,' she adds at my dumbstruck expression.

'A Black in Gryffindor?' This is unheard of.

'A Black in Gryffindor,' Minerva confirms with a hint of a smile playing around her lips. 'Horace wasn't too pleased. Merlin knows he wanted the boy in his House, not to mention the loss of one Galleon. Oh, and Horace asked me to tell you that you owe him five.'

'Five?' I say blankly.

'Galleons,' Minerva clarifies. 'Roderick Avery was Sorted into Slytherin. But can you believe that I have a Black in _my_ House?'

'Good gracious,' I mutter.

'We were all in shock,' Minerva recalls. 'He was the talk of the staffroom last night. Him and the new _tree_ that's been planted on the grounds…' She looks at me.

'Where was he Sorted?' I ask quietly, desperate for information but not wanting to sound it.

'Gryffindor.'

A warm feeling of relief seeps through me: this seems like the first major hurdle crossed. I don't know what I would have done if he'd become a Slytherin. I don't even want to think about what Horace's reaction would have been to knowing that a werewolf had been Sorted into his House.

'And what does he look like?' I say, hoping for reassurance.

'I don't know,' Minerva sighs. 'I didn't see him.'

'You didn't…?'

'It was maddening,' Minerva crosses her arms. 'Horace was standing at the exact angle so he was completely blocking my view the entire time.'

'You didn't even catch one glimpse of him?'

'Not one,' she looks almost as frustrated as I feel. 'And I don't teach first-year Gryffindors until Thursday, so you'll have to wait till then to find out, I'm afraid.'

'Actually,' I smile humourlessly. 'Dumbledore has been kind enough to arrange a little introductory meeting between him and myself. Tonight at seven.'

'Oh my,' Minerva breathes, then catches my expression. 'It'll be fine, Poppy,' she says consolingly, placing a hand on my shoulder. 'I'm sure he's…just like any other boy.' But it sounds very much as though she's trying to convince herself as well as me.

'If no one noticed anything different about him…,' I muse.

'…he must look normal,' Minerva finishes.

We smile weakly at each other.

'Dumbledore would loathe this conversation,' I say.

A quarter to seven, my office. I am sitting behind my desk, filled with the kind of dread that I normally associate with death. The air is so concentrated with tension that moving is a near impossibility. I am about to have a meeting with a werewolf, one of those people who transform into mad beasts every full moon. What am I supposed to say to him? 'Please don't eat me?'?

On my desk in front of me is that book I borrowed from the library all those months ago: _Why Werewolves Are Monsters_. I am debating with myself over whether or not I should read it. On one hand, it can hardly make me feel any better, but on the other, perhaps I should be prepared for the worst. I am sorely tempted to take a look, but instead I stand up and head into the empty ward.

I throw open a window and stick my head out into the fresh air with its cool September breeze. I look across the darkening grounds and spot the Whomping Willow in the distance, its long branches flexing slowly. Feeling sick, I withdraw my head and shut the window. I look at the clock on the wall: seven o'clock.

There is a knock on the door: two soft raps.

'Come in,' I say faintly. Why does it feel as though I am about to face my death?

The door opens slowly and in walks Remus Lupin.

I can tell you exactly what I was expecting. In my mind, I had envisioned some burly giant of a boy with unruly dark hair, fierce eyes and an ugly scowl which showed his jagged teeth. The werewolf would have a real appetite for violence and a rough manner. He would smell like an animal, talk in a throaty growl of a voice, and wear Hogwarts robes that were filthy and three sizes too small.

But Remus Lupin is—there is no other word for it—completely normal looking. In fact, if I were to describe him to someone, that is the exact word that I would use: normal. He is of average height and weight for an eleven-year-old boy, not too big and not too small. His light brown hair is neat and tidy, combed off his forehead, and his pale skin is lightly freckled. His robes are clean and pressed, his Gryffindor tie perfectly straight, and his shoes polished. I cannot make out the colour of his eyes, because he is staring firmly at the ground. In fact, if he didn't appear so nervous and strained, I would have assumed he was any ordinary student. I almost want to laugh, because he looks so harmless. Here's your monster, Horace, I think smugly.

After spending several minutes looking at Remus Lupin, it occurs to me that this is what I am doing: gawking at him. He is standing anxiously just inside the doors of the hospital wing and I am standing in front of him, staring openly. How long have I been doing this? He obviously notices, because he is looking more and more uncomfortable by the second.

Well done, Poppy, I think. Dumbledore would give you great big gold star right now. Say something. Anything.

In the end I introduce myself: 'I am Madam Pomfrey,' I say in my most businesslike tone, pretending that I haven't just spent the last five minutes gaping at him like he's some sort of freak show.

He gives the slightest of nods, still refusing to look at me. He lips are pressed together so tightly that I wonder if he ever talks. I wonder what on earth I am supposed to say or do now.

'Would you like to sit down?' I inquire.

Another small nod.

As I lead him into my office, and can't help but wonder whether I really want to be alone in that small room with a werewolf. The next second I am disgusted with myself for thinking such things about this scared little boy. I mean, how could someone like that actually hurt anyone?

Deborah Higgs eyes him keenly as we enter. I sit down behind my desk and Lupin sits down opposite me. He looks slightly more comfortable now that there's a kind of barrier between us.

'Congratulations on your Sorting,' I say to him, trying to sound calm.

He finally glances up at me, and I see that his eyes are brown, but only for a second because he quickly drops his gaze. Then he says in a very quiet voice, 'Thank you.' Not exactly a throaty growl.

'Your Head of House is Professor McGonagall,' I carry on. 'She's an excellent teacher. Of course, you have many excellent teachers. Many of them have been teaching at Hogwarts for as long as thirty years.' I find that this is much easier if I pretend that I am simply speaking to any ordinary pupil. This is the sort of casual conversation I frequently have with new first-years.

I notice that a pink flush is creeping across Lupin's pale face, and I wonder why. His expression had also changed from nervousness to what I can only identify as mortification as he seems to stare at something on my desk. I look down and…oh, good gracious.

It's _Why Werewolves Are Monsters_.

Right there.

In plain sight.

Merlin's beard.

I can't move. I can't breathe. Quick, what would Dumbledore do in this situation? Think, Poppy, think.

There have been several instances in my life where I have been so embarrassed that I actually want to die. But none have been nearly as gut-wrenchingly horrible as this. I can see absolutely no decent way to recover the situation. The offending book is lying right there on the centre of my desk, the bold red title being stared at by a certain werewolf who is sitting in my office.

Horace would say that werewolves don't have feelings, but the very real expression of hurt on Lupin's face contradicts that.

What am I supposed to say? A thousand excuses run through my head (Someone else put it there, someone gave it to me, I was collecting things for the annual Prejudicial Book Burning Festival…) Or perhaps I should give him the truth: 'I was just doing a bit of background research on your species.'

Then, in my state of absolute mortification, I do something exceedingly stupid. I reach over and flip the book upside down.

As it turns out, on the back of _Why Werewolves Are Monsters_ is a highly detailed drawing of a werewolf, complete with blood-dripping fangs and sharp claws and…oh dear, it also appears to be standing on top of a mutilated human corpse. Lupin's eyes are now so wide with horror that I'm afraid he's about to burst into tears.

There is nothing for it. I will simply have to be very blunt.

I stand up, grab the book, and shove it onto my shelf. Later, I intend to burn it. Then I sit back down and look at Lupin, who has resumed staring at his feet. 'This is embarrassing,' I say.

He sinks a little lower in his chair.

'I would very much like to die right now,' I carry on, hoping to convey the fact that I am feeling as bad as he is.

Is it just me, or did he give a little smile? Certainly his face seems less tense.

'You see, I've never met someone like you before,' I say quickly, 'and I wasn't quite sure what to expect.' I pause. 'You definitely aren't what I was expecting.'

He looks at me and I am struck by the amount of sadness in those deep brown eyes. He says softly, 'You were expecting something more like what was on the back of that book.'

The truth of his statement rings through my small office and leaves a resounding silence. Looking at this small boy with his solemn eyes and pale face, it suddenly occurs to me the sheer amount of suffering he must have gone through in his past, and will go through in the future. How could anyone feel hatred and revulsion, feel anything but warmth and pity towards someone like him? I feel deeply ashamed of myself for even considering that Remus Lupin would be a vicious monster, for regarding him in such an untrustworthy manner. A part of me want to burst into tears.

'I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Lupin,' I say in a slightly thick voice, holding out my hand.

He hesitates for a moment, looking rather shocked as though he can't believe I'm not backing away in fear. Then he accepts my hand and shakes, his fingers cold against my palm. He can't have shaken many people's hands before.

'Pleased to meet you too, Madam Pomfrey,' he says. Then he smiles, and it is as though his entire face has transformed. His eyes brighten and his cheeks colour and the effect is so heartwarming that I can't help but smile back at him.


End file.
